Murder Most Fancy, page 19
There was no way in the many universes that I resembled my mother. She was blonde. I was not. She was blue-eyed. I was not. She was impossibly tall and thin. I was not.
Never one to miss an opportunity, Dylan discovered the fatal flaw in Patricia’s closed-door plan. She had not locked the door. While she was catching her breath from her tirade, he snuck up behind her.
‘Indie! Wow! You look … so different. I like it,’ he said, putting out a hand to stroke my floaty skirt.
I tried to assess Dylan for signs of lying. His shock was genuine and he was telling the truth about my appearance being different, but I had trouble with the ‘like it’ part.
I noticed for the first time that Dylan Moss was not a tall man. He was taller than Patricia, but with my flats on he was the same height as me. I glanced down surreptitiously. The heels on his shoes were much higher than mine, which meant … Dylan Moss was shorter than me! He was Richard’s height, maybe smaller.
I had no issues with Dylan not being tall—I had no height type per se. Searing was exuberantly tall, yes, but Richard’s incredibly hot brother James Smith only had an inch on me, and his status as delicious demigod was undeniable. What was shocking was that I had never noticed Dylan’s stature. In my mind he was towering. A giant. A pinnacle. In real life, in real time, he was … less so.
Patricia shook her head and nervously flicked her thumb into her curled fingers. ‘This is a bad idea. Cat’s gonna skin me.’
I put a reassuring hand on top of her worried hand. ‘It will be fine. I am fine.’
‘See?’ Dylan beamed. ‘She’s absolutely fine. We’re five minutes away. Patty, why don’t you take the afternoon off?’
I thought Patricia might do Dylan harm. She looked like a lioness sizing up an impudent gazelle for imminent eradication.
I politely shoved Dylan across the foyer and out the door.
Dylan did all the right things. He opened the car door, the restaurant door and pulled my seat out at the table. He drove a nice car, made excellent wine and dining suggestions and was dressed immaculately. He was an attractive man by any standard, came from a perfectly acceptable family, seemed to have a successful career and was undoubtably clever. He appeared flawless. On paper. And in my memory. Except for the part where he cheated with Tiffany Goldstein.
Even then, teenage boys and girls make mistakes. Their frontal cortexes are not fully formed. That’s why they are not allowed to vote, drive, operate heavy machinery or run corporations, kingdoms or countries. Even if I couldn’t absolve Dylan the adult, remaining furious with Dylan the kid seemed increasingly unfair. I felt forced to forgive youth. However …
Dylan’s car was the most ostentatious form of Rolls-Royce, the Phantom. I knew via the grapevine his usual vehicle was a Lamborghini of some description. After my father’s death behind the wheel of his Ferrari, my dislike of sports cars was well documented. The Phantom, then, was the vehicle he had deliberately chosen to replace the triggering Lamborghini. The one he thought would most impress me. I had Esmerelda’s words ringing in my ears: a Phantom was the car old men drove. Old men with drivers. Okay, so she said that about Bentleys, but a Rolls-Royce Phantom seemed much worse in the old man stakes than a Bentley Mulsanne. And …
His work cutting deals to promote and protect artists I’d never heard of seemed unnecessarily protracted, sharkish and mean. His aftershave was too strong, his shirt too far unbuttoned, his black Zegna pants too tight.
He moved from suggesting the wine to outright choosing the wine. He annoyed the La Cotta waitstaff by having our seats rearranged and our table moved to the ‘best harbourside view’. He talked throughout the critical explanation of the day’s specials.
And he answered his phone. Twice.
I had also completely forgotten about his passion for gossip. And himself. In the last hour I had heard the latest rumours about three American celebrities, four prominent families, two from Melbourne and two from Perth, a royal and an elderly medical tycoon. Dylan loved the sound of his own voice.
On the upside, he certainly knew his menus. The risotto alone was enough to make up for a dismal breakfast. I was considering the correctness of ordering two desserts after I had already eaten entrée, main and two sides, when he started a new topic of conversation, in the same gossipy vein, about a Sydney family. The Holly family.
‘You know, there’s always been a scandal around the Hollys,’ he said, ignoring his gnocchi. I had spent the last few minutes wondering if he was going to eat the last two pieces. How misleading would it be to eat food off the plate of a man you had no intentions towards going forward?
‘Of course, you know that before Dame Elizabeth was Lady Elizabeth Holly, she was Miss Elizabeth Hanson. Of the dairy cow Hansons. Everyone knows her father, Dashiell Hanson, was a shocking tart,’ he said, smirking, forking the second last piece of pasta.
I nodded as I watched the gnocchi disappear into his mouth. I was going to need to buy a few pallets of this pasta and have it shipped to Mother’s and stored in a deep freeze system of some sort. I was going to need to buy a deep freeze system of some sort.
‘You know, they say the only person who had more mistresses than Earl Alexander Holly was his father-in-law, Dashiell Hanson!’ He then paused momentarily to chew and swallow his pasta.
Was Dylan’s gossiping always this bad?
‘So, who knows how many little Hollys and Hansons are running around out there!’ He winked. ‘Old Lizzie is exceptionally generous, though, and such a lovely lady. My clients adore her. Mind you, half of them had art, design or acting school scholarships funded by her. Con scholarships too. Some people say it’s a guilty conscience because old man Hanson was such a devil,’ he said, grinning mischievously, sipping his wine.
God, yes, wine! There was wine! I put my hand out to my glass and recalled in dismay that it was empty. I glanced about desperately trying to catch a waiter. I physically hailed one like a taxi.
‘Wine?’ I asked the waiter, trying to suppress the desperation in my voice.
‘Have I told you about my clients? The business?’ he asked in a self-deprecating tone that belied the fact that he had, several times, told me about both things in great detail. He was an up-and-coming public-relations-public-affairs-publicist to many hot, new, up-and-coming stars.
‘Yes,’ I said, taking a sip that bordered on a gulp of crisp wine from my newly filled glass. Hello, sauvignon blanc, my old friend.
‘You’re awfully quiet, Indie,’ Dylan said, leaning over the table to squeeze my hand. ‘Trouble in paradise?’
‘Paradise?’ I queried.
He laughed. ‘Just a euphemism. Paradise. You know, life in the Hasluck-Royce-Jones lane.’
This was one of the things that made me, as an Heiress, furious. The assumption that life was always ‘paradise’. In the last year I had lost my home, my husband and aside from the contents of my safe and my safety deposit boxes, all my worldly possessions, including my shoes. I had also lost my pride, any hope of social comeback this decade and an inordinate amount of sanity. I had been accused of, and investigated for, a double homicide and discovered the life I had shared with my husband was a myth. All this while enduring Esmerelda, my family and the fluctuating price of platinum. Last week, I had tripped over a non-existent, has-to-be-a-millionaire corpse dressed as a homeless man while trying to have a casual caipiroska with a borrowed Monet. I was being blackmailed by my grandmother and a Dame who used to be a Lady. I was also telling some fairly serious untruths to a high-ranking coroner’s court employee, withholding information from the federal police, who may or may not be following and/or bugging me, and bending other laws by breaking into a hotel, impersonating a maid and eavesdropping. I was unsure if eavesdropping or impersonating a maid was illegal, but it seemed unsavoury. Regardless, paradise was not the correct term.
This was especially grating when I knew that he knew that my life was a PR disaster. He’d said so.
‘I’m going to need a cherry biscotti and the vanilla mascarpone panna cotta,’ I said to the waiter who was now re-filling Dylan’s wine glass. ‘Two,’ I said, reconsidering. ‘Two biscotti.’
I turned to Dylan. ‘What’s it to be, Dylan? Am I the flambéed-husband-clueless-bungling heiress? Or am I living in a best-life paradise?’
Dylan beamed at the waiter, then at me. ‘I love that you have such a strong appetite. My performance clients don’t eat anything. They’re so worried about staying thin. It’s wonderful you’re still not worried about that.’
The waiter gave Dylan a hostile, derisive look then rearranged his face and smiled before walking away. The smile was good enough to land him one of Dame Elizabeth’s acting scholarships.
The moment the waiter was out of earshot, Dylan leaned back across the table and patted my hand. ‘Don’t worry about the gossip, Indie. I’ve got it under control. Everyone knows that the deeper the family’s pockets are, the shorter society’s memory is about scandal. Besides, long scandals are for mediocre families. You’re a Hasluck-Royce, for goodness sake! Your mother is Cat Jones! Just two million dollars in the right hands, four at the most, and I can have you back on every list before the end of summer.’
Ahh. So that was what he was up to.
‘Of course, I would do it for free for you, Indie. If I could afford to. I have business partners, unfortunately.’
I suddenly realised that I didn’t like Dylan Moss. Esmerelda was right: he was a douche.
A series of crashes emanated from the restaurant entrance, followed by what sounded like quacking and the fluttering of feathers, then much oohing and ahhing. I could not see what had taken place from our ‘best harbourside view’ table, but I could think of only one person capable of making that kind of ruckus without raised voices coming immediately after.
While Dylan took his third phone call, I rose, motioning towards the bathrooms. Dylan gave me his trademark grin and a sexy nod-wink combination. He was a very good-looking guy with zero morals who did absolutely nothing for me.
This made me very happy. I had depth! Who knew?
Dylan’s personality, pretence and presence were such enormous turn-offs that no level of handsomeness could overcome them. I was suddenly relieved of a long-held ghost, healed of a long-open wound. I was no longer afraid of Dylan Moss. He held no power over me. It was extremely liberating.
He had fallen from grace in the world of delectable man treats. He was no oven-warm blondie. He had no hot caramel fudge. He wasn’t even a dull, seemingly healthy Bran Muffin. Dylan Moss was a strawberry jelly whip, made up of only two ingredients: ground-up cow bones and chilled evaporated milk. Very little substance, able to mould into almost any shape, and high in sugar and artificial colours and flavours. Just the thought of it made my teeth hurt. No wonder Mother didn’t like him.
I didn’t even bother with the pretence of walking towards the bathroom. Instead, I headed directly towards the commotion at the entrance.
There were several tables filled with nondescript patrons, several with tourists, and one with two Gucci-clad SILC graduates and their Prada-clad husbands. The SILC table fell silent as I approached and as I walked away, I heard one of the men say, ‘You’d never get away with setting me on fire, dearest; you’re not rich enough!’
A female voice squeaked in objection. ‘I am so!’
So, yes, I was still high society roadkill, and yes, it might take more than a season to blow over, but, as Dylan had correctly pointed out, I was rich. Very rich. If I was going to spend $4 million on something to make me feel better, it would be shoes.
Esmerelda was leaning on the reception desk, waiting patiently. She had a bowl of fresh pumpkin and pesto crème ravioli in her left hand and a fork in her right. The only sign of a commotion was a bus boy disappearing into the kitchen with an orange mop and a sloshing bucket. And a large blue, black and white duck feather wedged firmly in Esmerelda’s hair.
I didn’t ask about the duck. You just don’t need to know everything.
‘How did you know I was here?’ I asked her.
‘It’s the most pretentious, overpriced restaurant within two Ks of the house,’ she said, spearing two or three ravioli at a time onto her fork.
‘How did you get that?’ I enquired, pointing at the dish.
She smiled at me as if I were a tad simple. ‘Dude.’
‘Dylan Moss is paying for that ravioli, isn’t he?’
‘Totally,’ she said, forking in the last piece. That ravioli was worth every cent of whatever exorbitant price Dylan was going to have to pay for it.
‘Shall we?’ I said, heading for the glass doors.
A passing server collected Esmerelda’s bowl. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before,’ he said to Esmerelda, wide-eyed.
‘You should totally get out more then,’ she said, scooping a handful of gold Baci chocolates from a gold-edged glass dish on the reception counter.
‘What did you do?’ I asked, resisting the urge to pick the duck feather out of her hair.
‘Nothing,’ she said, shrugging innocently.
I didn’t believe her for a second.
CHAPTER 15
WHITEBOARDS AND SNAPPLE
I was hoping that running away from Dylan mid-date at La Cotta was a signal sufficiently insulting and blunt to disabuse him of any notion of my having any interest in him personally or professionally. This was an optimistic view. Dylan was not a quitter. Moreover, I had a sinking feeling his ego was much bigger than his pride. Landing a Hasluck-Royce would be an enormous ego boost. Fixing a broken Hasluck-Royce would be a next-level personal and professional coup.
However, I refused to admit to Patricia that I may have failed to eradicate Dylan. I had food services to maintain. To safeguard my breakfast trays, I took extra precautions, instructing Patricia to hire a security firm to place a guard at the front gate. The guard was to refuse entry to everyone without an appointment except Searing, check all flower deliveries for hidden phones and answer directly to Patricia.
While delivering a real breakfast the next morning Patricia had questions. ‘What about online shopping deliveries?’ she probed. ‘Can I tell him to let those in? Who checks those?’
After seeing Searing at the beach and receiving a stern warning from Burns to stay away, I had doubled down in the undergarment stakes, almost cleaning Guia La Bruna out of C-cups and flattering French knickers. I didn’t want some burly gorilla named Bruce rifling through my new lingerie.
‘Online package deliveries are fine. Esmerelda will check them.’
Wait, there was something wrong with that sentence.
‘Except the Guia La Bruna packages.’
‘Who’s Guy La Brew-nah?’ Esmerelda asked, waltzing in, no doubt having smelt the sweet scent of both tea and coffee.
‘He makes Egyptian skincare, same recipe as the pharaohs used,’ I said with the same amount of truth as the ‘nothing’ I had received to my question about the duck ruckus the day before.
I slid out of bed, robed, slippered and made my way to the table. I really needed to start formalising these breakfast arrangements and move the whole circus out of my bedroom and into the pool house dining room.
Esmerelda’s phone pinged and she slipped it out of her back pocket. She managed to key the phone and pour herself a cup of English breakfast tea at the same time. I feared for the safety of the china cup in that juggling act. It was worth more than the phone.
‘Awesome,’ she said, setting herself at the table and attempting to add my French toast to her juggling mix. ‘Rachael White says she’s tracked that batch of dental implants. It came into Australia via a wholesaler.’
‘Great!’ I said, waiting for Patricia to pour my tea. ‘Can she contact the wholesaler and see which surgeons they sold them to?’
She examined the screen. ‘The wholesaler went broke a few years ago.’ She read on, ‘Oh, and he’s also dead.’
‘Great,’ I said dourly, pouring my own tea.
‘She’s lookin’ for “a list of practices that purchased from the wholesaler”,’ she read, still eating.
‘Is there a list?’ I asked hopefully.
‘She doesn’t know if there’s a list.’
Breakfast yoyo. I would have put my head in my hands or smacked my head on the table in frustration if the French toast were not disappearing so rapidly. I’d need both my head and my hands to compete.
‘So, there is no way of knowing who those implants went too,’ I huffed. I was going to need more maple syrup.
‘Like, you’re so touchy in the morning. There’s always a list of buyers. I worked in retail, remember? There’ll be one and she’ll totally find it.’
How could I forget Esmerelda’s ‘retail experience’ at the Bankstown Boutique? There was another suburb I had never driven to. I felt some justification since it apparently was populated by illegal sweatshops and counterfeiters and bordered by suburbs where cold case murders occurred.
‘Has the new security guard arrived?’ I asked, changing the subject before I received emotional whiplash.
‘Yep.’
‘And?’
‘And what? He’s a dude. He’s from a high-priced-low-idea security company. And he’s standing like a tool at the front gate. It’s totally embarrassing. People will think we can’t take care of ourselves.’
I gestured around the room in amazement. ‘What part of my life or lifestyle says to you that I can look after myself? The maid? The assistant? The borrowed artwork.’ I pointed to the Monet and the Vermeer on the wall. ‘Or was living with my mother the big tip?’
‘That’s it. You’re gettin’ up at ten at the latest from now on. When you wake up after eleven, it’s like a grizzly coming out of hibernation. Hungry and nasty. We should put you at the front gate. You could tear that dude a new one.’
I was about to argue with her but felt this action might support her claim. Instead, I ate my French toast, swam a few laps, lay in the shaded sunlight and read for an hour, took a long shower and bought a pair of vintage black and silver crystal Sergio Rossi heels online.
